Goodnight, Travel Well
by skybound2
Summary: Molly Hooper is buried in a white casket on a warm spring day. For some reason that Sherlock can't fathom, the world keeps on spinning. (Major character death, and subtle references to Series 3.)


**Title:** Goodnight, Travel Well  
**Author:** skybound2**  
Rating:** T  
**Characters**: Sherlock and Molly (with brief cameos by John, Mary, and Mrs, Hudson)  
**Word Count**: ~2,900  
**Warnings: **This piece contains major character death. In fact, the entire piece is ABOUT their death. With some minor descriptions of the scene of death, and the early stages of the grieving process for Sherlock. Please do not read any further if these themes disturb/bother you.  
**Summary: **Molly Hooper is buried in a white casket on a warm spring day. For some reason that Sherlock can't fathom, the world keeps on spinning.  
**Spoilers:** Subtle references to aspects of Series 3, including the name of the villain that will be in Episode 3, but nothing truly spoilery, I don't think. (Though it is probably best if you've already watched the first two episodes of the Series before reading.)  
**Author's Note**: I have not been spoiled for the finale of Series 3, and I hope beyond hope that nothing even remotely close to what follows is included in the episode. I've also never written for _Sherlock_ before. That said, I was unable to go to sleep last night without committing this tale to paper (or screen, really). Some of the inspiration, and the overall mood of the piece, was inspired by the song "Goodnight, Travel Well" by _The Killers_ (hence the title), and so I highly recommend giving it a listen while reading. Slightly irregular in format, but easy enough to follow, I think. (Though FFN makes it rough by constantly deleting my line breaks!) I would call this one pre-Sherlolly for certain, though for obvious angst-filled reasons, the pairing is never fully realized.

I'm sorry.

* * *

**Goodnight, Travel Well**

* * *

Sherlock stands with his back straight and hands hanging loose by his sides, cloaked in one of his many coats in direct opposition to the warmth of the day.

For once, it seems England has decided to shed its perpetually cloudy, overcast image in favor of _this._

He's never resented the weather so much in his life.

And yet, the world around him remains bright. The strong sun shining through the canopies of the well-placed trees that decorate the cemetery. Their leaves sway on the gentle breeze of this picture-perfect late spring day, while somewhere not nearly far enough away, a bird sings a cheery tune. All of it a not-so-subtle reminder that life carries on.

It _always_ carries on.

Even when Sherlock damn well wishes it would _stop_.

~~~\/~~~

The pavement is slick beneath Sherlock's feet as he skids to an ungraceful halt; his feet clinging to the still viscous, but rapidly congealing puddle by Molly's head. (And arms, and legs, and _feet._)

There is a muffled thud, followed by a sensation that might have been pain (if he was still capable of recognizing such a mundane physical response) as he falls to his knees beside her still (too still) form. As is, the vice-like pressure in his chest is greedily sucking up all of those receptors in his brain.

A lukewarm wetness seeps into his clothes where they make contact with the ground, but he refuses to allow its cause to penetrate his mind. Instead, he reaches for her. His hand as still as Molly.

_Why is she so still?_

~~~\/~~~

There's a minister of some sort overseeing the proceedings. Sherlock doesn't bother to note what type. Doesn't hear a word that passes from the man's lips. Instead his eyes are focused (stuck) on the white, lacquered wooden box with gold accents that the man in black stands beside as he drones on and on.

Eventually the droning stops, and the few ancillary neurons that Sherlock has not relegated to his intense study of the box inform him that other people are speaking now. That amidst the tears and snuffling, they are sharing stories and anecdotes. _Fond memories_. The part of his brain feeding him this knowledge even makes an effort to tell him that he actually _knows _some of these people. That he even _cares _about a few. That he was actually _present _for some of these tales, and maybe he might want to give a listen? Hmm?

But he can't. He _can't._

And at that moment, Sherlock doesn't have the faintest idea as to _why_.

~~~\/~~~

She wasn't even supposed to _be _there. So why? Why? Why was she there? He'd told her not to leave the lab. Not tonight, of all nights. Not when someone with much less patience than Moriarty, but with just as large of a vindictive streak, was threatening the lives of Sherlock's...friends. Sherlock was certain that one way or another, it would be over tonight. All Molly had to do was remain at Bart's; as between his homeless network, and Mycroft's men, Sherlock knew she would be safe there.

She should have been _safe_.

Instead, her unseeing eyes stare into the night sky, a ring of red etched around the blown out pupil of one. A bed of purple, swollen skin surrounds it on three sides, while a trail of red maps a path from between parted lips along an equally bruised cheek, ending in a drop that clings to the lobe of her ear in defiance of gravity.

His hand finds hers, sliding with care around the delicate, already cooling digits. He allows the tips of his fingers to settle at her wrist, and counts off the seconds as he waits to feel the flutter of a pulse beneath her skin. Ten pass by. Then twenty.

Two-hundred and sixty-seven.

A firm hand lands on his shoulder. A squeeze. The bite of a ring on the third finger clears a bit of the haze from his mind, just enough to identify the owner. _John._

Five-hundred and eighty-four.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, she's - she's gone..."

~~~\/~~~

The scent of lilies permeates the thin skin of his nasal passages as he watches one after another be placed on top of the box. Sherlock thinks he could grow to hate the cloying odor, might already have done in fact, if they hadn't been her favourite.

But Molly loved lilies, and so he can't find it within himself to despise the blooms.

As the casket is lowered into the ground, he doesn't blink, and it is with dry eyes that he watches it disappear from view. Around him there is movement, but he doesn't pay it any mind. Not with all of his attention directed towards the pit into which the object of his intense concentration has gone. Someone jostles him as they move forward; the long stemmed flower clutched in their hand leaving a trail of pollen on Sherlock's coat.

He doesn't brush it away.

Seconds, minutes, hours - the passage of time seems so _irrelevant _now - he feels motion by his side once more. Sherlock notes with apathy that someone is lifting his hand, quite without his permission, and wrapping his fingers around an object that feels suspiciously like the stem of one of those same flowers.

He squeezes, wishing there were thorns.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

"Sherlock?"

The ache, the unwanted, but all-too-familiar as of late, _yearning_ that twists his insides at the sound of her voice flares to life. But he corrals it, trapping it within the confines of his mind palace; shuffling it towards the back where he stores all of the items that he is unable (incapable) of deleting.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take well to being caged. He tosses back the remnants of the scotch still in his glass in an effort to keep the emotion at bay for just a little while longer. He works his mouth into a snarl that she doesn't deserve, knowing the faster she leaves, the better (the safer). "Why are you here, Molly? Shouldn't you be dancing the night away?"

"It's after one, Sherlock. The wedding ending an hour ago."

Sherlock blinks, caught off guard as much by the angry cadence that taints her words as to the knowledge of the time. "Is that so? Well..." He leans forward to grasp the neck of the bottle that he's been working his way through since his return to 221B this evening. He pours a generous amount into his glass before lifting it in a mocking toast. "They say time flies when you're-"

"Having fun? Is that what you've been doing here? Having _fun? _Getting drunk?_ By yourself_? Instead of staying until the end of your best friend's wedding?"

"I completed every one of my assigned tasks, as well as several additional ones, if you recall. My presence there was no longer required."

"You expect me to believe that -" She gestures wildly, with weird, emphatic circles of her hands towards some random location in the general direction of the kitchen that Sherlock takes to mean 'the wedding.' He swallows down more of his drink to keep the smile that is threatening to claw its way onto his face from surfacing. "That all of that was just out of obligation?"

"I don't expect you to _believe_ anything, Molly. What I expect is for you to accept that I came back here, _alone_, for a reason. And that I'd quite like to get back to that, if you don't mind. Or really, even if you do. I don't care. Just so long as you leave_._"

Sherlock experiences no satisfaction as he watches the expressions on her (oh-so-open) face rapidly change from anger, to surprise, to jealously, back to anger again but mixed this time with frustration, before settling on hurt. In fact, the subtle hint of moisture that now coats her eyes makes something not remotely close to 'satisfaction' settle heavy in his gut.

"It's just, I _saw _you, leaving early." She's twisting her hands together now, the fingers of her right hand twirling the ring on her left. And the sight, _the reminder_, turns his stomach in an entirely different way. "And you, you looked, so...and I was - I wanted - to see..."

"To see what? If I made it home safe and sound? Or if I'd gone wandering down to my old haunts for a fix?"

"I..." He can tell by the rush of red to her cheeks that was _exactly _what she was thinking. He can't fault her for it. Not when the thought did cross his mind once or twice.

Or a dozen times.

Even so, he's (fairly) certain that danger has passed, so while her concern is (wanted, appreciated, _longed for_) warranted, it's no longer necessary. And with the way that twisting emotion is starting up again, he needs to be rid of her _now. _He drains his glass once more, and drops it beside the bottle on the table. "I'm fine, Molly. Go home."

"Sherlock-"

"_Go_."

Her response isn't immediate, there is some shuffling from foot to foot, and some additional attempts on her end to break through the shoddily constructed walls he's thrown up, but he ignores every one of them; and eventually, she does as he has asked, and leaves.

Sherlock tells himself that he is grateful to be alone once more.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

At the periphery of his vision, Sherlock notes that the attendees of the funeral have begun to make their way out of the cemetery, but he doesn't move. Unwilling (unable) to tear his eyes away from the still open hole into which the white and gold box has gone. In his clenched fist, he clutches the bent stem of the lily he was given.

The answer to the mystery as to _who_ placed it there is provided when someone steps into his line of sight, breaking him of the unchanging view ahead. He finds himself blinking rapidly to try and adjust to the person's sudden proximity.

The solemn visage of Mary greets him first, the corners of her mouth turning up in a forced smile that is too alike to a grimace to be anywhere close to the comfort that he suspects she means it to be. A weight at his elbow draws his attention down and to the right, where he notes that someone's hand is resting against him. The even warmth that emanates from the area tells a tale as to how long it has been there. He follows it upwards until his eyes rest upon the pained face of John.

"Take all the time that you need, Sherlock. We'll be here."

~~~\/~~~

Charles Augustus Magnussen is in handcuffs, but Molly Hooper is dead.

It's an equation that doesn't balance out. And try as he might, Sherlock can't make it work.

Charles Augustus Magnussen is in handcuffs, _but Molly Hooper is dead_.

Molly.

Is.

_Dead_.

He stares at the fan-shaped outline that her blood-soaked hair left upon the ground, follows the curve of that down to where the slight breadth of her shoulders had been. In fact, there's a complete imprint of her on the pavement, in the dried remnants of her blood.

He stares and stares, looking for something, _anything_, that will tilt the world back into place, since clearly it's been kicked out of alignment.

It's the only explanation that makes _sense_. How else could she be, be...

Someone places an orange blanket around Sherlock's shoulders.

He doesn't shake it off.

~~~\/~~~

The sun sets, taking the damnable sound of the singing birds with it beyond the horizon. The heat of the day dissipating, thankfully, with its departure as well.

It isn't until the moon is high in the sky, and the chill that arrived with the cloudless night has soaked deep into his bones, that Sherlock moves at last. He takes one steady step after another until he reaches the edge of the grave.

_Molly's _grave.

He stares down into it, the light from the moon reflecting off the white of the casket, illuminating the bed of lilies that lay atop. The pang in his chest is so intense and abrupt that it forces the air from his lungs, and he finds himself on his knees once again, his hands curling into themselves against the ground; the lily that he's been holding all this time, still somehow remains mostly intact.

Behind him, he hears his name being shouted by a panicked voice that can only belong to one person. He grunts out a reply, throwing one hand out behind him in a warding off gesture. He has no idea what words he uses to calm their approach, but the footsteps stop before they reach him, though they do not retreat.

Sherlock sucks in a desperate breath of air as he rocks back onto his heels, his gaze focusing once more into the depths of the grave.

~~~\/~~~

He doesn't recall going home. But at some point he must do, since he's seated on his chair with a pensive John sitting across from him. The clatter of a tea tray drags his attention to the room at large. He frowns at the sight of a quite full lounge. Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and Lestrade are situated in various spots throughout the room, while a noise by the window at his back alerts him to the presence of Mycroft.

It's a shock, coming to and finding his home filled with people he doesn't recall inviting in. He wracks his brain trying to determine the reason for their appearance, or for the reason why one person in particular appears to be missing, but he comes up short. "Why are you all here?" To his surprise, his voice is rough from disuse.

"Oh, Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson's voice trembles, the sound of tears recently shed thick on her tongue, but it is John that grabs all of Sherlock's attention as the man reaches out to grasp Sherlock's hand.

"Sherlock, it's - the funeral is today."

Sherlock stares unblinking at John, his brain unable (unwilling) to process the information. His frown deepens. "Funeral?"

"Yes." John nods once, a terse motion that highlights the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Molly Hooper's funeral."

Sherlock blinks, the world knocked off-kilter once more. "Oh."

~~~\/~~~

It's her smile that he thinks of first. Not the too bright one she'd give when surrounded by colleagues and friends at gatherings (parties, nights at the pub, _weddings_), but the softer one. The one that she'd bestow upon Sherlock when there was no one else around, and he'd managed to say something both genuine and kind. Or as near to it as he was capable.

There'd been more of those smiles since his return, though not nearly as much as he'd have liked. But he'd sworn to himself that he would keep his distance. She was engaged. (Until she wasn't anymore, but that had been so recent, that he hadn't even had a chance to readjust himself to the change.) _Happy. _And he wasn't going to let anyone ruin that. Not even _him. Especially_ not him.

But no more. No more more of those smiles. No more crinkling of her nose when he'd say something that she didn't comprehend. No more nervous twitters when he'd press just a bit too close. No tinkling laugh when she found something humorous. No more finishing his sentences with increasing regularity and startling accuracy. No more astute deductions that would send him reeling.

_No more Molly. _

The body is only transport. Sherlock knows this. Knows that it is just a means to move the mind from one location to the next. That it doesn't matter. The body is unimportant. The mind, the _mind _is the thing. The mind is what _matters_.

(But _Molly_ matters more.)

And for the first time that Sherlock can recall, he finds himself wishing (hoping, _pleading_) that all of the dullards of the world have the right of it. That maybe, just _maybe_, there's something _more_.

(He doesn't think there is, not truly, but oh...oh the thought of it is _intoxicating_.)

He turns his gaze upward, into the night, out to where a sparse few stars struggle to be seen against the brilliance of the moon, and he praysto a God that he doesn't believe in that the _spark_, that indefinable quintessence that was Molly, finds its way..._somewhere. _Somewhere _else. _

He wants, _so much_, for this to not be goodbye. For this to only be a brief parting between friends as one moves on to a new destination.

It's such a foreign concept to him that his mind has to work to resolve the new idea, to slot it into a space where it _fits_.

In the end, it's strangely easy to do.

He takes a deep breath and stands, closing his eyes for a lingering moment as he does. When he opens them, the ache in his heart remains, but it somehow seems more manageable.

He exhales a long stream of air, unplanned words carrying themselves out into the night as he does. "Goodnight, Molly Hooper. Travel well."

With a final nod to the casket, he turns on his heel and heads in the direction of John and Mary where they have been waiting, all this time, huddled together by their car (and likely keeping the groundskeepers at bay).

The flower, Molly's bent (but not broken) lily, remains held tight in his hand.

~End


End file.
